


Fiendfyre

by LibraOnFire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, But only enough to get to the sexy times you're welcome!, But only plot relevant others I promise, Fucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Others - Freeform, PWP, Post Hogwarts AU, Surprise there's a bit of a plot!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11702247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraOnFire/pseuds/LibraOnFire
Summary: A dozen wards protect the small room and everything in it. It was just too bad that he hadn't discovered a ward that could protect his heart from Draco Malfoy.





	Fiendfyre

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-beta'd, so any and all mistakes are my own. If you find any, -please- let me know! Remember, comments are cookies! And I love cookies! Also, they encourage me to continue writing, so there's that as well. Thank you so much to everyone who bears with my sleep-deprived, mania-driven brain and still decides to read this. Kudos to -you-! :)

It's always this intense, like lava in his veins, the air made humid by their panting breaths and the friction of their bodies. They're Fiendfyre when they're like this together, consuming each other lick by devastating lick, salt trails left on their skin when the sweat has cooled. He's always afraid they'll break the bed frame, but they haven't yet. A dozen wards protect the small room and everything in it. It was just too bad that he hadn't discovered a ward that could protect his heart from Draco Malfoy. 

They've been Aurors for three years, partners for two, and fucking for two months. What had started as a one night stand has become sort of a ritual. When they'd both returned to the small flat they shared, the sweat still dripping from another near-death experience of cornering and capturing a stray Death Eater, color high in their cheeks, pulses racing, stomachs swooping from the sweep of Apparating, they'd collided. They were suddenly two stars, the empty space that existed between them at work eaten up by adrenaline and an instinct to celebrate surviving with fucking. 

Harry remembered he'd felt like he was being burned up with a fever, too hot and dry, barely quenched when he'd found himself on his knees, licking and sucking Draco down with gulping swallows until they both had to stop for breath. That first time, they hadn't made it out of the living room, had actually collapsed the couch when Draco had laughed over his shoulder at Harry and asked, “That's all you've got, Potter?” It hadn't been, apparently, and Draco sat more stiffly than usual the next day. But his eyes had been clearer, too, and they both seemed to take up more space in their shared office. It was like they'd overlapped and keeping a professional distance at work was suddenly, well...work. 

Every time after that, whether it was that Harry had nearly had his face melted off by a jinxed teapot that blew acid instead of steam; or when Draco had blown his own cover in the middle of a meeting with the psychopaths that were plotting the assassination of the Minister of Magic, it just seemed to follow that they should avoid shouting at each other about how careless the other had been and get right down to fucking the stupid out of each other. It might be working, but Draco makes Harry so stupid, so possessive, so angry sometimes that he can't even see straight. 

When they'd been on some dull guard duty earlier this morning for an elderly widow's garden party, it seemed like the only sweating they'd do near each other that day would be from standing in direct sunlight for three hours. Harry had secretly felt relieved, because what they had going on between them wasn't going to last forever, and he had the sneaking suspicion that any next time would be the last time. Draco was too cold outside of their flat, the only warmth in him similar to lightning striking ice. 

“Honestly,” Harry had griped in their office, snapping the scarlet robe of his uniform under his chin. “Who hires Aurors to guard a brunch in their back garden?”

Draco had huffed, “The nouveau riche, of course.” Then he'd smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle in his own scarlet robe and held out a bent spoon. “Time to go, Scarhead.” 

As soon as Harry had touched the crook in its silver stem, he felt the familiar hook in his navel jerking him backward. Draco had seemed to be bored, barely hanging onto the Portkey at all, looking unruffled despite the whirlwind and swirl of colors that still nauseated Harry. They'd been dropped abruptly onto a neatly trimmed lawn that rose smoothly upward, toward what Harry thought a mansion might be, but at which Draco merely sniffed. 

There was the usual breathlessness and eyes darting up to where his bangs covered his scar when the old woman insisted on introducing nearly each and every one of her guests to Harry, before Draco's eyes narrowed and had almost had to drag Harry out of her clutches. He loudly reminded her that they were here to work, not entertain, and Harry had wondered how Draco hadn't been sacked yet. 

It was barely twenty minutes later when the first guest nearly choked to death on a slice of kiwi. Lisa Turpin, a girl who'd been a Ravenclaw in the same year as Harry and Draco, was quick to respond, an efficient Waddiwasi extricating the fruit from the nearly blue-faced man. The panic seemed to spread instead of dissipate though, and then Harry'd realized that nearly everyone was choking. He'd Waddiwasi'd nearly half the guests before he heard Draco shouting at the other end of the lawn, had nearly buckled under the rapid cracking of curses against Draco's Protego Maxima. 

He'd just got a half-chewed strawberry up and out of a very terrified little girl's mouth when he looked up in time to see Draco get laid flat by a simple Stunner, and he'd seen red. Red like the strawberry. Red like Stupefy. He didn't even think, was instantly right there, wand denting into the jugular of a pale throat. He'd seen her eyes, wide and dark, swallowed up by pupil, and knew he could Avada her right then. 

“Harry,” Draco had wheezed from the ground behind him, sounding strangely a mile away and yet right in his ear. “Don't. We have to bring her in alive.” 

The bowl had been free of any spellwork, aside from keeping the fruit chilled. The sweet, pretty young woman had used a cursed knife though, had worked for Ms. Sadiya less than a week because house elves were so pre-war, and had decided to isolate her in the worst way to get at her Galleons. That's what Harry barely heard while Draco was being mended, a slick little scar along his left cheekbone by the time the Healer was done with him. And no, there was no other damage, no curses or jinxes, or Merlin's sweaty balls, Potter, he's fine. 

Then their robes were hung up side by side on the little wooden hooks on the back of their office door, and the room was just too small with them both in it, at opposite sides of it, at their own desks and trying to write up their reports as quickly as possible without wasting so much ink when Harry accidentally knocked the well over and muttered, “Fuck this, let's go,” and had swept Draco out of his swivel chair. 

He'd Side-Alonged Draco without the courtesy of a warning, but he knew Draco knew it was going to happen. They spelled their clothes off of each other and into the hamper down the hall near the washer and dryer was, as soon as their feet thumped on the wooden floor of the living room. It was like the hallway didn't even exist, or maybe they'd accidentally Apparated right into the bedroom, because they'd learned their lesson about fucking on the couch, and on the kitchen table, and in the shower. The bed is older than the other furniture but seems built for the rigorous workout, so they only fuck here now. 

Draco's hard already, and it makes Harry frantic. He knows it's not just Draco's dick in his hand, but a lit fuse. Harry wets as much of it with his mouth as he can fit, crawling on his knees to keep it in there while Draco backs up and sits on the edge of the bed. Draco's fingers in his hair urge Harry's mouth up and down, a rhythm that sets the muscles in their thighs into quivers. Harry does his best, and does it sloppy, just right for Draco's hips to start jumping, tiny little snaps of upward motion that nearly gag him. 

Eyes stinging, mouth stretched wide, Draco's unsettlingly coltish legs twitching under his hands, Harry nearly comes, untouched, right there on the floor. He seems to know, the way he always does when Harry's so close, and Draco finds a way to make the air above Harry's head smirk, and that just won't work from down here. Harry lets Draco pop out of his mouth with a slick pop, up on his feet and onto the bed, pushes Draco down into the thick mattress so he can slide right up onto him. 

It's like straddling a bolt of electricity, shocks going off everywhere they touch, the heaviness of his erection skidding in his own slick across Draco's trembling abdomen. The world is gone when Draco's cool fingers glide lightly across Harry's collar bone, trail down his chest and stomach, an icy point of focus when he starts to slowly fist Harry. It's no less fierce, just more calculated somehow, reminds Harry that they're both here. They lived through everything and they're here, right now.

Harry lets him take him to the edge and pulls back with a groan, leans on one knee for a moment to get Draco's legs up so he can slide into the safe space between them. It's his Bermuda Triangle, where he gets lost and crashes, and if he's ever found, he'll never be who he was before. Harry magics lube into his palm and loses two fingers first, just sends them out and into and upward, where they're sucked in and stranded, working like legs in quicksand. 

Draco's ready so fast it makes Harry's head spin, three fingers sloppy and two languages of “Right the fuck now, Potter!” Or at least that's what it sounds like to Harry and he's propelled to comply, the backs of Draco's legs and heels squeezing across the small of Harry's back until he pushes forward, one hand steadying himself on the knob of Draco's knee and the other guiding himself into Draco. 

He's driven into the darkness, instinct and heat and that low, almost growling sound that punches out of Draco with every thrust. If he held still, Harry's sure that Draco would do all of the work, and for one bizarre moment, he's tempted. He nearly loses the bruising rhythm they've set and his hips stutter, snap forward with a clap of skin meeting skin. They move like fire, eating up the oxygen in the room until they're panting, sweat standing out on their foreheads, a humid drip collecting in the little curve between the two points of Draco's upper lip. 

The heat must touch his brain, which seems not to have a ward on it either, and Draco must be fucking the stupid right back into him, because Harry does something he hasn't done this entire time. He leans down, like the great big twat that he is, and kisses Draco. He mouths up that sweet little drop, moans for it, chest to chest with Draco, hips still grinding forward. 

Incredibly, he isn't thrown off, blessedly allowed to continue to fuck into his partner with a frenetic energy that makes the base of his spine feel like liquid. Draco's lips are soft and warm against Harry's, parted slightly to make room for the higher octave of the sweetest whines Harry's ever heard. It's like Draco was hiding a broken spot and he let Harry find it, is letting him get at it even if it breaks everything around it. There's a sudden influx of salt and Harry realizes he's kissing up tears, thin rivulets sliding down Draco's cheeks.

The fire is banked, burning bright and slow, and he grinds, hips pressed as close to Draco as he can possibly get. Something's been broken and somehow repaired, as if sex and snogging are magic, and maybe it is at this point. He's delirious with the fever of fucking, and Draco is pushing downward, urging him onward. Harry slides his hands under Draco's back, curls them up and around Draco's shoulders, finding a new way to get closer. 

“Stay with me,” he pants, pushing the plea into Draco alongside his cock, pushing and grinding it as far into him as he can. “Don't go. Don't leave me.”

Draco whines again, cock throbbing between their stomachs, legs tightening around Harry, and Harry knows he's close, loves the feel of Draco pulsing, body going tight around him and his vision whiting out around the edges as he comes hard and thick inside him. 

“I live here, you dolt,” Draco breathes. “Where else would I go without you?” 

And it's like lava in his veins, thick and slow and sure. Draco's coming and never going and it's the best thing that's ever happened to him.


End file.
